


yours for the weekend

by amscray_punk



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Camping, I'm Sorry, M/M, Masturbation, and, and that reason is, is there for a reason, set in the tis the damn season universe but that rating, spot takes race on a weekend getaway, there is also a good bit of fluff in the first chapter so there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28655538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: When Spot suggests they get away for the weekend, Racethinkshe knows what he's in for.He's wrong.*Set in the'tis the damn seasonuniverse, about six months aftermerry christmas, finch. But I'm keeping it separate from the series, at least for now, because of the rating.**The first chapter of this is totally PG (except for some language), but the second chapter is... very much not.
Relationships: Finch/JoJo (Newsies), Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I kinda feel like I owe you guys an explanation for this one.
> 
> This is set in the universe of 'tis the damn season, so there are spoilers for that whole series if you haven't read it. The only reason I'm not adding it to the series is because of the rating.
> 
> newsiesxforever on tumblr got me thinking about Sprace going camping (tysm for that) and originally, this was just kind of funny and silly, imagining what that would be like. So that's the first chapter. But then, I put these two idiots in a tent, miles away from any other humans and, well... y'know. Sprace. And that's the second chapter.
> 
> If you don't wanna read the smut, it's very easy to avoid. First chapter's safe, and a decent bit of the second chapter is, too. You can definitely tell when things are about to take a turn but if that's not your thing, you can just skip it. 
> 
> Anyway, enough of that. Pls enjoy

“We’re gonna miss you _so_ much!”

Race laughs softly as he returns Jojo’s fierce hug, glancing over his head to raise an eyebrow at Spot, who half-rolls his eyes on his way out the door to finish loading up the truck. Race grins, squeezing Jojo a little tighter, and drops a kiss into his hair. 

“We’ll be back in two days,” Race reminds him gently, although he _is_ still taken aback, sometimes, by the force of his foster siblings’ love for him. He’s always pleased by it, of course–and he’s spent the last six months doing everything he can think of to earn it. Finch had come around relatively quickly once Spot officially adopted him, and now, Race can’t imagine this house without his dry sarcasm and sharp wit. Race knows Smalls has always liked him, although she’s less apt to outwardly show it than her brothers. Mush and Jojo had taken to him immediately, and Race would be lying if he said he doesn’t _love_ their warm, tactile affection. Jojo reluctantly pulls back, and Race injects his voice with an almost parental tone he didn’t know he was capable of until recently. “And I expect the house to still be standing by then.”

Jojo giggles quietly at the same time that Finch walks through the front door with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

“No promises,” He quips, and Race just barely manages to tug at a lock of hair as he passes by. Finch tosses the bag into the bed of the truck, stopping when Spot reaches out for him. Race watches them fondly, not even aware of the smile on his lips until he feels Jojo’s head rest on his shoulder. He slides an arm around his shoulders and squeezes Jojo close, dropping his voice.

“Seriously, you’re in charge,” Race mutters, pausing for a beat. “Also, keep your phone on, ‘cause I might need you to rescue–”

“Alright, we’re all set,” Spot calls from his place by the driver’s side, one hand still grasping Finch’s shoulder. Race lets out a dramatic sigh before detangling himself from Jojo and heading to the truck. 

After a few more hugs, reassurances and stern reminders that Jojo is the _only_ one allowed over for the weekend, Spot and Race finally climb into the truck. Jojo waves excitedly from the front door, Finch’s arm slung around his shoulders, and Finch lifts his chin in a goodbye as they pull out of the driveway.

Race snuggles into Spot’s side as he drives them out of town, and it's not until they’re on the highway that he pulls away enough to get a good look at him.

“You’re so cute,” He says matter-of-factly. Spot huffs, sparing Race a quick glance before he looks back at the road. 

“What?”

Race grins; he was hoping Spot would ask. “I just think it’s _so_ cute how you actually believe they’re not gonna throw a party while we’re gone,”

“C’mon, Racer,” Spot scoffs, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Finch is a good kid.”

“Oh, for sure,” Race agrees, nodding as he gives Spot’s thigh a gentle squeeze. “He’s also got you wrapped–”

“Hey,” Spot interrupts, looking over at him with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re one to talk–”

“Remember New Year’s, Spot?” Race can’t keep the laughter at bay as he drops his head back against the seat. “We left for _one_ night–”

“Okay, yeah,” Spot sighs, shaking his head, although he can’t seem to stop the small grin that forms. “That one was on me, though. Should’ve had Medda check up on him instead of Vince.”

“Yeah, you were just a new dad, then,” Race points out, giggling and squirming away when Spot digs a finger into his ribs. He takes the opportunity to lean over and roll down the passenger’s side window, savoring the warm summer breeze. “Really, though. What makes you so sure that won’t happen again?”

“I’m not _sure_ ,” Spot admits, shrugging a shoulder with a little more nonchalance than Race thinks is really believable. “I just… well, I can relate.” Race lifts an eyebrow.

“How so?”

“C’mon, you remember what it’s like trying to find privacy in Medda’s house,” Spot glances at him again, and the look in his eye makes Race’s cheeks flush before he can stop it. 

He certainly _does_ remember; as if sharing a bedroom with almost comically overprotective Jack wasn’t bad enough, there were _always_ a handful of rowdy littles running around, ever curious to see what their older siblings were up to. Race doesn’t even want to think about how much of his meager summer job earnings ended up as hush money, begging twelve-year-old Romeo not to tell Medda that he’d had a boy in his room unsupervised. 

“Yeah,” Race manages, clearing his throat when his voice comes out strained. “Yeah, I remember.”

“So I figured,” Spot reasons, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “Finch is a good kid, but Jojo is a _great_ kid. So I told him he could stay home alone while we’re gone, and I won’t have Medda come check on him, but he can _only_ have Jojo over.” 

“Ah,” Race nods, laughing quietly as it clicks into place. “That’s genius, Spotty.”

“Right?”

“Absolutely,” Race decides not to point out how absolutely none of this will stop Mush from coming over anyway, as he scoots back across the bench seat to snuggle up to Spot again. “No way Finch will let anything ruin a whole weekend with Jojo.”

“My thoughts exactly,”

“God, I wish your grandma had done that for us,” Race says wistfully, shaking his head as he watches the landscape change out the open window. “I mean, I guess she kinda did,”

“How so?”

“When she’d let us camp in the backyard, remember?” 

“Racer,” Spot laughs, glancing over at him briefly. “That wasn’t camping.” 

Race’s head whips around to fix Spot with a look, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me? What the fuck was it, then?”

“That was us fooling around in a tent until you’d start to complain about being on the hard ground, or that it was too cold–”

“Okay but that was a ploy to get into your sleeping bag and it _worked_ –”

“Or it was too quiet to sleep, and then we’d sneak through my window and sleep in my bed–”

“Again, I’m not seeing the problem, here–”

“And when my grandma caught us in the morning, you’d spin some bullshit story about coyotes or fuckin’ rattlesnakes–”

“Your grandma _loved_ my stories, Spotty,”

Spot laughs at that, shaking his head fondly. “She didn’t believe a word, but she did love them,” A beat. “And you.” 

Race swallows against the sudden emotion rising in his chest, leaning in to kiss Spot’s cheek quickly. 

“I loved her, too,” He says quietly, slipping his hand into Spot’s free one and giving it a squeeze. Spot squeezes back, keeping his eyes resolutely on the road. “We were so lucky to have her.”

“And Medda,” 

“God, yeah,” Race nods enthusiastically, his attention drawn away when Spot exits the highway. “And now Finch is lucky to have you.” Race is distracted from the landscape, which is turning more rugged by the second, when Spot laughs.

“Damn it, that’s what I should’ve done,”

“What?”

“Made _them_ sleep in a tent for privacy,” Spot chuckles, turning onto a narrow road, lined with trees on both sides. 

Race throws his head back and laughs at the thought. “I wonder how long they’d last,”

“Probably longer than you,” Spot quips. Race smacks his chest lightly.

“Please, Spotty, the goal was _always_ to get in your bed,” 

“Yeah?” Spot challenges, turning down another shaded road, this one coated in dirt rather than pavement. “You think you could last the night in a tent, now?”

“Oh, definitely,” Race says, the confidence in his voice betrayed by the small crease in his brow as he searches the woods for a cabin. Spot _did_ say they were staying in a cabin, right? Surely. A romantic weekend getaway, just the two of them, a few bottles of wine, privacy from snarky teenagers–that’s what he’d signed up for. His frown deepens when Spot pulls off the road and parks the truck next to a fire pit and an ancient charcoal grill. “Uh, Spot–”

“Good,” Spot says, and the amusement in his voice makes Race sit up a little straighter. “‘Cause here’s your chance to prove it.”

“I–” Race doesn’t even get a word out before Spot pecks his cheek and gets out of the truck. He swallows as he hears Spot start to unload the truck and he steels himself, sliding over the seat to climb out the driver’s side door. He spins in place next to the truck, taking in his surroundings, nerves tingling as reality sets in. 

There’s no cabin, no hot tub, no picnic table or satellite dish. No other humans in sight. Just a fire pit with a couple of bench seats, the sad little grill and a wide, flat space that’s just the right size for–

“A tent.” Race deadpans as Spot appears at his shoulder, holding a folded tarp that he tosses on the ground. “We’re sleeping in a tent.”

“Racer,” Spot sighs, crouching down to unfold the tarp and spread it out. “What did you think I meant when I asked if you wanted to go camping?”

“I thought–” Race cuts off, mouth opening and closing a few times as he watches Spot head back to the truck for the tent. He can’t seem to make his feet move to help as the gravity of his situation sets in. “I thought you meant…”

“What, some fancy cabin on a lake for $300 a night?” Spot laughs, kneeling down to spread out the tent on top the tarp. Spot’s teasing, but flashes of Instagram photos flood Race’s mind; him, surrounded by his pretentious LA friends, drinking rosé from the bottle on a huge deck that overlooks Big Bear Lake. He’s still frozen in place, and after a moment Spot stops what he’s doing and looks up at him with a smirk. “I thought you could last the night in a tent, isn’t that what you were just saying?”

“I didn’t know you meant, like, _now_!” Race whines, only barely resisting the urge to stomp his foot. Spot chuckles, unfazed, and gets back to work. Race pulls his phone from his pocket in desperation, letting out a whimper when he reads **No Service** on the screen. He groans quietly as he watches Spot work, his fantasies of getting drunk in a hot tub in the woods slipping away like the rushing water he can hear from what must be a nearby river. 

“Are you gonna help me with this, or–”

“Ugh, fine,” Race groans, dropping his phone back into his pocket and making himself move to join Spot, who's still far too smug and amused. Race drops to his knees with a huff, picking up two of the metal poles and looking at them curiously. Spot purses his lips, clearly trying not to laugh, and gently takes the poles from him.

“Y’know what, why don’t you just start unloading the truck? I got this.”

“Fine,” Race grumbles, standing and making his way over to the truck. “Can’t believe the _teenagers_ get the whole house to themselves and _we_ have to sleep on the _ground_ –”

“You’re _such_ a drama queen,” Spot laughs, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world as he makes quick work of the tent. Race continues muttering under his breath as he unloads the truck, not entirely able to hide the shock when he turns around to see the tent standing, Spot kneeling near the entrance as he puts on the finishing touches. Some of Race’s irritation fades as he watches Spot, flannel sleeves pushed up to his elbows making it even easier to ogle his forearms and, well, maybe real camping has its perks. 

It only takes a few minutes to get their things into the tent, and Race is halfway through zipping the sleeping bags together when Spot pokes his head in.

“Hey, I’m gonna go gather some kindling for the fire before we go grab food, wanna come?”

“Lemme guess, you brought an axe to chop your own firewood, right?”

“Oh my God,” Spot laughs, rolling his eyes. “No, I’m just looking for tinder and kindling,” He pauses at the blank look on Race’s face. “Y’know, the smaller bits of wood that you use to start a fire?”

“Oh, _that_ sounds like a blast–”

“Suit yourself,” Spot shrugs, backing out of the tent and standing up. Race hesitates for just a moment.

“Wait,” He whines, crawling out of the tent, brushing himself off as he stands. He has to fight not to pout at the amused way Spot’s looking at him, arms crossed over his irritatingly toned chest (alright, it’s only irritating because Race is irritated, but still). Race huffs, “Lose the flannel, and I’ll come with you.”

Spot has the audacity to chuckle but he obliges, shrugging out of his flannel and tossing it into the tent. Race doesn’t try to hide the way he watches him, eyes roaming over his arms, bare now thanks to his black undershirt.

Okay, so maybe camping isn’t the _worst_ thing they could be doing. Maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

Race still isn’t entirely sold on the camping thing, just yet.

Although it _was_ kind of fun to pick through the nearby trees for tinder and kindling–and he even learned a thing or two about the differences between them. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, either, traipsing through the woods with Spot; and _maybe_ he’s starting to realize how silly it was to assume Spot would take him to a cabin. This is his element, Spot’s always been comfortable in the quiet peacefulness of the woods. And the longer Race is out here with him, the more he can start to see why.

It’s just beginning to get dark when they return to the campsite after visiting the tiny little general store a few miles up the road. They’re stocked up, now, on all the essentials: hot dogs and buns, granola bars, chips, water, s’mores ingredients–and a few bottles of wine. Race had service for all of five minutes in the store, and he chuckled as he clicked through the texts from Jojo, full of exclamation points and earnest assurances. Race doesn’t entirely believe him, but there isn’t much he can do about it from here. 

Race sets about filling their cooler with ice and food while Spot settles in to get a fire started. He’s crouched next to the fire pit, blowing gently on the small flames when Race joins him, wine bottle in hand.

“Shit, Spotty,” He says suddenly, with the air of someone who’s had a frightening realization.

“What?”

“We didn’t bring a corkscrew!” He pretends not to notice the way Spot snorts at the panic in his voice, preferring to drop dramatically onto the bench seat instead. “How am I supposed to get through this without–”

“Christ, Racer,” Spot chuckles, reaching into his pocket and holding out a small Swiss Army Knife without a hitch in his fire-making. “Here.” Race blinks.

“What… what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Take it, for one,” Spot says dryly. Race rolls his eyes but takes the small knife, turning it over in his hand. It’s old, clearly, but well-maintained and–

“Oh!” Race exclaims, nudging Spot in the ribs with his elbow when he laughs outright at him. “Wow, I didn’t know these had corkscrews,”

“You’re learnin’ a lot this weekend,”

“Shut up,” Race mutters, setting the bottle on the ground and opening the corkscrew attachment–which is just that, apparently; nothing like the full-size corkscrews in Spot’s cutlery drawer at home. He purses his lips, looking between the bottle and the knife for a moment. “Hey, Spot–”

“Racer, I can build the fire or I can open the wine, I can’t do both right now,” He says, his voice calm and even, not annoyed in the slightest and it settles Race’s nerves a little, too, knowing just how comfortable and content Spot is out here in the middle of fucking nowhere. He takes a breath and goes for it, and after a slightly terrifying moment where he thinks the cork might break off halfway, there’s a quiet _pop_! Race gasps in delight.

“I did it! Spotty, I got it!” Race is slightly surprised, when he looks back up, to see that the fire is going in earnest now, and Spot chuckles before he sits on the bench next to him and kisses him sweetly.

“Good job, baby,” He mumbles against his lips, and Race nearly forgets about the bottle in his hand–and the knife in the other–as he happily kisses back. And maybe Spot’s a genius, or maybe he just knows Race _that_ well because he reaches into his hand to retrieve the pocket knife, folding it closed and slipping it back into his pocket without pulling away. “I knew you could do it.”

“Shut up,” Race sighs, eyes fluttering shut as Spot moves to focus his kisses on Race’s neck, absently setting the open bottle on the ground. Spot shifts to face him fully, nipping sharply at the sensitive spot below his ear and Race gasps. 

“Tell me to shut up one more time, Racer,” Spot murmurs into his skin as he slides a hand under each of Race’s thighs to pull him into his lap. Race goes eagerly, one hand weaving into Spot’s hair as the other grips onto his shoulder. “And you can sleep in your _own_ sleeping bag–”

“Fuck, no no no,” Race mumbles quickly, fighting to keep his focus as Spot’s lips move down his neck, shivering when he feels Spot’s rough hands slip under his t-shirt. “No, I don’t want that.”

“Didn’t think so,” Spot’s working his way along his collarbone and up the other side of his neck now, and Race doesn’t even care that he can _hear_ the smirk in his voice. Race whimpers, grinding his hips down and grinning when Spot mutters a curse under his breath. “Baby, wait,”

“What, why?” Race whines, pulling back enough to look Spot in the eyes. Spot _is_ smirking, damn him, the flames reflecting brilliantly in his dark eyes.

“‘Cause this fire won’t last forever,” He explains, and Race knows he’s right, but he pouts anyway. Spot’s eyes drop to his lips, just like Race wanted, and he leans in to capture them again. His kiss is quick but full of promise and he catches Race’s bottom lip between his teeth before he pulls away. “And we’ve got all night, so let’s eat.” And with that, Spot kisses him once more, somehow resisting Race’s attempts to deepen it, and lifts him easily from his lap, depositing him onto the bench again. 

Race grumbles but obliges, picking up the wine and taking a healthy swig straight from the bottle before passing it to Spot. In what seems like no time at all, they’ve sharpened sticks, roasted and eaten their dinner, and polished off the bottle. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the flickering fire or maybe it’s the way Spot’s pressed up against him where they sit, his chest flush against Race’s back and lips ghosting along his hairline, but Race is beginning to think he wouldn’t mind doing this, like, all the time. He runs his hands over Spot’s thighs where they rest on either side of him, dropping his head back to grant Spot better access to his neck as he looks up through the trees at the starry sky.

“What now?” He asks, almost dreamily and he’s a little surprised to hear how relaxed he sounds. Spot hums a response, not moving his lips from his skin. His soft kisses send chills through Race’s entire body, despite the warm evening, despite the fire. 

“Up to you,” Spot murmurs, hands slipping underneath Race’s shirt again and brushing over his hips. “We could throw another log on the fire, open another bottle, make some s’mores…” Race hums, considering; but doesn’t say anything, content to have all of Spot’s attention. “Or… we could head to bed…”

“Spotty,” Race gasps, feigning scandal. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet, whatever will the neighbors think?” Spot chuckles, hands moving from Race’s hips to the button on his jeans.

“You see, Racer,” Spot sounds almost thoughtful as he pops open the button and begins to drag the zipper down, _so_ slowly. “That’s the good thing about camping.”

“What’s that?” Race breathes, eyes closed as he focuses on holding still, on the movements of Spot’s hands. Spot’s quiet as he brushes his lips up Race’s neck again, slipping one hand into his jeans to grip him over his boxers. “Ah, fuck–”

“There’s no one around for miles, baby,” Spot’s voice is silky as he speaks into Race’s ear, calm and collected like he doesn’t have a hand down his pants already. “No one around to see what we’re doing…” He trails off, brushing his lips over the shell of Race’s ear before moving lower, using his teeth again. “No one around to overhear all those pretty sounds you make…”

“Oh God,” Race groans, hands tightening around Spot’s thighs as Spot’s grip tightens on him, and his decision is already made. “Yeah, let’s go.” He lets out a whimper as Spot pulls his hand away and he stands shakily, one hand gripping Spot’s shoulder for balance. Spot takes Race’s hand in his own, pressing a quick kiss to his fingers.

“Go on in, I’m gonna put out the fire,” Spot says, looking up through his lashes with a devilish smirk. “Be there soon.”

“Hurry,” Race says seriously, ducking down to kiss him once more before crawling into the tent. 

He finishes zipping the sleeping bags together, digging out an extra blanket to spread on top of them and a lantern, which he turns on the lowest setting. He slips out of his shirt and jeans, grateful for the warm evening as he stretches out on the blanket. Race tries not to get antsy as he waits, but it’s almost like he can still _feel_ Spot’s lips on his skin, feel his hand wrapped around him and he doesn’t even realize his eyes have closed, that his own hand has slipped into his boxers until–

“Wow,” Spot’s voice, deep and a little reverent, surprises Race and his eyes fly open, gasp caught in his throat. “Now _there’s_ a sight,”

“Spotty,” Race breathes, and though his hand has stopped moving, it tightens almost involuntarily when Spot takes off his shirt in one swift movement, tossing it carelessly aside. 

“Don’t stop,” Spot instructs, eyes locked on Race as he steps quickly out of his jeans and kneels down, running a hand up Race’s thigh as he looks down at him. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Race’s boxers and pulls them off, smirking at the mixture of arousal and confusion on Race’s face.

“Spot, what–” 

“I said, don’t stop,” Spot says evenly, and Race’s eyes roll back as he hurries to follow instructions, lightly stroking his cock. He can feel Spot lie next to him, propped up on one elbow as he watches. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He asks, trailing a hand up Race’s side, over his ribs and across his chest, the unpredictable movements sending shivers down Race’s spine. 

“Y-yeah,” Race breathes, forcing his eyes open and turning his head to look at Spot. He groans as he looks him over and realizes he’s naked too, already hard and Race lets himself go to reach for him automatically. But Spot grabs his wrist, shaking his head with a smirk.

“Racer,” Spot’s voice, quiet and intent, shoots straight through Race. He swallows hard, eyes locked onto Spot’s as he takes himself in hand again. “If it feels good, why would you stop?” 

“Because– _fuck_ ,” Race moans, hips moving of their own accord. “‘Cause I want _you_ ,”

“You’ll have me, baby,” Spot assures him, hand still roaming over his chest and stomach as he watches, eyes dark and intense. He rolls away for a moment, and Race barely has time to protest the loss of contact and heat before he’s back, running a hand lightly up Race’s thigh. “Just be patient.”

“Spotty,” Race whines, stilling his hand until Spot’s eyes snap to his and he can feel himself flush under his gaze, beginning to move again. “I’m not patient–”

“Oh, I know,” Spot chuckles softly, ducking down to kiss his neck, one hand braced over Race’s hip, holding him down against the blanket. “But you look so pretty, Racer, laid out for me like this…” 

“Shit,” Race breathes, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut as he bites down on his lip. Spot’s hand disappears but his lips continue their path, sweeping across his collarbone and chest as Spot shifts closer. Race can feel him, hard against his thigh and he groans weakly. “Spotty, please,”

“Please what, baby?” Spot asks softly, like he doesn’t know exactly _what_ and Race nearly snaps at him–instead cutting off in a strangled moan when he feels Spot’s hand between his legs, two slick fingertips pressed up against his entrance.

“ _Fuck_ , Spot,” Race gasps, grinding down against Spot’s hand, the movements of his own hand stalling in his distraction. Spot clears his throat pointedly and Race starts to stroke himself again, unable to stop his hips from moving this time and his voice comes out a pathetic whimper. “Baby, please–”

“I do like it when you ask nicely,” Spot breathes into his ear, and Race can hear the smile in his voice as he presses his fingers swiftly inside. Race arches his back, a string of curses falling from his lips and it’s hard to remember to keep jerking himself off because it all feels so _good_. “Don’t stop, Racer,” Spot reminds him as he works him open, as if he can read his thoughts and fuck, maybe he can because Race is on the verge of begging for more when Spot adds a third finger. “So pretty, baby,”

“Spot,” Race gasps, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. “Spot, please, I’m ready–”

“Mm, yeah, I think you are,” Spot agrees, and Race almost moans in relief–instead he whimpers in protest when Spot pulls his fingers out. But he barely has time to register the loss before Spot grips his hip and turns him onto his side, facing away from him. 

In an instant, Spot’s pressed up behind him, bare chest fitted perfectly against his back, already slick cock slipping easily between his cheeks and Race grinds back automatically in search of _more_. Race can feel himself trembling in anticipation, Spot’s lips ghosting up the back of his neck a sharp contrast to the tight grip on his hip, holding him in place. Spot nudges the back of Race’s leg with his knee, spreading his legs until he can feel the tip of Spot’s cock pressing against him. He’s so worked up, so eager for more that he’s not even ashamed when the pleas fall fast and desperately from his lips.

“Baby, baby _please_ I _–_ I can’t, please I _need_ y–oh, _fuck_ –” Race cuts off in a high-pitched gasp, the breathy sound in direct contrast to the overwhelming, heady feeling of Spot sinking into him. He can’t even focus on pleasuring himself anymore, hand reaching blindly for any part of Spot he can find. Spot grabs his hand, moving it up Race’s stomach until Spot’s arm is wrapped over his chest, Race clinging tightly to his forearm as he adjusts, breath coming in quick gasps. 

“Oh, c’mon, Racer,” Spot chides, slipping his hand out of Race’s grasp as he ducks in to kiss his neck more forcefully. He splays his hand over Race’s abs, pressing them even closer together as he nips at the sensitive skin. “I know you can get louder than that.”

“Oh, God,” Race moans outright, lost in the sensations, in the knowledge that he really can be as loud as he wants for the first time in _months_. He can _feel_ Spot’s toned chest pressing into his back, his teeth on his neck, his bruising grip on his hip as he pulls out and thrusts back in again and Race curses, already too close. “Spotty, _fuck_ oh my God.”

“That’s better,” Spot praises, for the first time sounding a little breathless himself as he presses in again, harder, faster, drawing another guttural groan from Race. Race turns his head, biting the pillow as he edges closer and closer with each deep thrust. “Nah, baby,” Spot says, reaching up to weave his fingers into Race’s hair, gripping tightly and pulling his head back. “Let me hear you.”

“Fuck, fuck,” Race pants, hands twisting in the blanket as he tries to hold on, tries to make this last just a little bit longer. But Spot’s got other plans, apparently, because he drops his grip in Race’s hair to wrap his fingers around his cock instead. Race’s hips jerk in response, lips parting in a gasp and Spot groans in his ear as he works him quickly. It’s only another moment until Race feels Spot’s rhythm falter, feels him gasp his name into his neck, feels him release deep inside him and Race is _gone_. He moans loudly as he comes, hips bucking into Spot’s hand even as Spot fills him still, Spot's breathing ragged in his ear as he strokes him through his orgasm. “Oh my _God_ , Sean,” Race whimpers as Spot's hand slows and then stills, releasing him to rest gently on his hip again. “Fuck.”

“Sean, huh?” Race can hear the smirk in his voice again but he doesn’t _care_ , just groans in response and rolls his hips back; a smirk of his own on his lips when Spot curses under his breath. “Must’ve been good, if you’re droppin’ the first name.”

“Mm, fuck yeah it was,” Race sighs happily, gasping when Spot carefully pulls out and rolls away from him. He’s back in a moment with a towel, and Race rolls onto his back as Spot cleans them both up quickly, balling up the towel and the stained blanket and tossing them into the corner of the tent. Race sits up with difficulty, head spinning a little, and tosses Spot’s boxers to him as he slips into his own and then into the double sleeping bag. Spot joins him seconds later and Race curls into him eagerly, nuzzling into his neck as Spot’s arm encircles him. He can’t recall ever feeling quite _this_ cozy in a tent, before, and he struggles to keep his eyes open long enough to tell Spot as much.

“Think you’ll last the night, then?” Spot teases, grinning as he kisses Race’s temple. Race grumbles incoherently in response, pressing a finger to Spot’s lips.

“Shh,” He sighs, eyes closing against his will as he snuggles closer. “Sleepy. Love you.”

Spot chuckles softly, the deep sound as warm and comforting as the, “Love you, Racer,” he whispers just before Race falls asleep.


End file.
